2

The wind beat with greater, redoubled force, making a hollow sound against the Plexiglas entrance door, which shook suddenly. The weather was worsening practically by the minute. Day had barely dawned with its dubious dawn when everything had already darkened and grayed under a thick layer of clouds. A few light pieces of newspaper and a few torn branches flew across the street. A red salvage truck drove slowly by, its pink warning light flashing. It was carrying a heavily damaged greenish Ford Mondeo. The practically squashed front end, with its fancifully dented hood, revealed the engine compartment. Henry recognized the make only by its distinctive rear end, which was almost intact except for the shattered right headlight. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling the stains he'd noticed on the crumpled bodywork of the door were dried bloodstains.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gemitus," a man's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

He glanced at the doctor standing before him.

"What's wrong with her? Is everything okay?

" "Yes, generally speaking." She's in a bit of shock, but aside from a few scratches and bruises, she's fine.

"Does anyone know how she got on the road?"

Steve Firmus looked at him silently for a moment, then said,

"About three hours ago, we got a call about an accident on 8th Street, halfway to Last Step. We were alerted by a very distraught woman who called from her cell phone. We dispatched an ambulance, and two victims were brought in: a woman and a man. Unfortunately, they were already dead. One of our paramedics, who was there when he heard about the girl you brought in, told me that when they arrived at the accident scene, the woman was still alive, and as they were extracting her, she kept whispering one name: Emilly...

" "Do you think she was with them?" he interrupted. "Is that their daughter?"

"It looks like it," he said. "The road to Last Step runs parallel to the one you were driving. Apparently, after the accident, she was in shock and managed to get out of the car and through the woods to the other road. She was very lucky. We still have to confirm this, of course, but there are definitely documents, photos, etc. in the car or with the victims.

" "Yes. Do you need me for anything else?" he asked. "I have to get to work and I'm already very late."

"Of course, I won't keep you anymore. But please remember, you saved her life."

He left the hospital and drove to the office. His partner, Jeff Moneo, once again pointed out his lack of a cell phone, but Henry, as usual, waved him off. He didn't like being tied up, and a phone would be nothing more than a leash at the end of which he would always be waiting and available. When he explained the reason for his delay, Jeff looked at him with those deep-set eyes, which held many shades of life, and simply muttered, "Aha." His thin face, with its strong jawline and narrow nose, resembled a marbled visage. He wasn't angry, but he seemed to want to be.

The day, constantly buffeted by wind, mercilessly lashed by rain, and smothered by an ever-present grayness, weary from the struggle, finally began to settle into a well-deserved sleep. Henry returned to his empty house, steeped in the grief of the loneliness so close to them both. He took a shower, standing for a long time under a strong stream of hot water; it soothed him, loosened him, calmed him, and acted like a balm on an open wound. Then he made himself a stiff drink, put on some soft music, and sat in a soft, comfortable leather armchair. He wondered if he should call the hospital to inquire about Emily's condition; he wasn't entirely sure that was her name, but it fit her, and besides, all the facts pointed to it. Fate is a strange creature with an unfathomable soul. He had lost his wife and two daughters; she had lost her parents. They were both now left abandoned and alone in the world. Somewhere on the distant horizon of his thoughts, a desire to embrace the small creature, wronged by fate, appeared. He quickly pushed her away; she seemed irrational, unattainable, even immoral in some way. After all, she had just lost her parents, her world had fallen into a pit of tragedy, shattering into fragments of lost hopes at the bottom of pain. It had fallen, just like his had three years ago. He took a small sip of alcohol. Only he was an adult, and she…

The opening notes of the tango "El Choclo" echoed softly throughout the house. Standing in the doorway was Sheriff Moneo from the local police station, a large man with a stocky build and a kind, calm face. He held his hat in his hands, and his worried features revealed that today had been a difficult and trying day for him. As he always claimed, his greatest flaw was worrying too much about every case he encountered. When a few years ago, a vagrant murdered the local priest, stealing whatever he could, the sheriff wouldn't rest until he caught the culprit.

"Hi, Henry, can I come in?

" "Sure."

The sheriff was very concerned about the accident and, as it turned out, had come specifically for that purpose. Henry recounted, as thoroughly as he could, all the circumstances surrounding Emily's discovery (it turned out that was indeed her real name, as confirmed by the documents). She was eleven years old and the daughter of the Spretor family, the same couple who, as the doctor correctly suspected, had died in a car accident. They came from the northern part of the country, from Evileye, and were relatively wealthy, running a chain of small restaurants. It turned out that, as a result of the accident and the shock, Emilly had suffered amnesia and couldn't remember anything. She couldn't remember her name, who she was, or where she came from.

"Maybe you should visit her?" the sheriff asked. It wasn't a question or a statement, more of a loud thought expressed in words. "I don't know. I don't want to involve you. I know it's... not easy for you, but...

" "Okay, I'll go see her. Tomorrow morning.

" "Thank you. I'll be going now," he said, straightening the brim of his hat.

Henry escorted the officer to the door.

"You're the only one he remembers," he said as he left. He nodded, got into his official car, and drove away.

Henry followed the red dots of his taillights for a moment longer, then closed the door and returned to his seat. The music CD reached the end, and the first track began again. "You're the only one he remembers," he repeated the sheriff's words in his mind. Hmm, was this fate?

The next day, the weather seemed to improve somewhat. The clouds were no longer so impressive, and the still pale blue of the open sky broke through them. As promised, Henry went straight from home to the hospital. He was led down a wide corridor to a small, sterile room painted white. There she lay alone, her small body in a large bed, covered by a pale quilt, so that only her head, hair scattered across the pillow, and one bandaged forearm were visible. He sat down on a worn chair to one side, his hands folded as if in prayer, and silently gazed at her face. Her even breathing and closed eyelids gave her face an expression of angelic peace; as if nothing had happened, as if the world were a single, joyful experience, and everything bad was just a dream from which anyone, at any moment, could awaken.

She shuddered and sighed, and a quick spasm ran across her right cheek. Her fingers tightened on the white folds of the duvet, and after a moment, as if hesitantly, she relaxed. Henry, unsure why, partly against his will, took her hand in his. He felt the warmth, the gentleness of her touch, and once again in his life, he felt there was something to live for. Our existence doesn't end with any of our loved ones; it continues for us, for others whom we may not even notice, but who exist. Just like the death of Icarus, which went unnoticed by many, even though it was tragic and incredibly painful for his father. And he was like the biblical Job. He had everything and lost everything. He constantly wondered why this had happened to him, why he had to suffer this cruel fate. He never expected an answer. He didn't speak to God, and even if he could, he wasn't sure he would receive any response from Him. But perhaps the point is simply to relive what happened to him, to feel the pain, to understand how much we have when everything goes well and how much we lose when tragedy strikes in our lives. Humanity is both greatness and smallness at the same time. Yet, for as long as he can remember, he has been tormented by one question: "Why did God have to prove anything to Satan?" We are magnificent beings, capable of creating beautiful things: magnificent music, breathtaking images, and emotionally stirring novels. We have souls—this is our greatness, but it is also the source of our weakness. We become angry, often unable to forgive, taking action solely to satisfy our own desires or to bring down our enemies. We love and hate, we laugh and cry; sincerely or not. It's easier to understand our own mistakes than to understand someone else's, for the simple reason that we can justify our own in one way or another. We can then hide behind a real, but unfortunately often invented by ourselves, wall of more or less false beliefs.

Emilly's eyelids slowly opened, and her gaze rested on Henry's face.

"Is that you...?" she whispered in a soft, airy voice. "I knew you'd come for me. You're my angel, aren't you?"

Henry felt a sudden pang of bitter regret squeeze his chest, choking his breath.

"Yes," he whispered through a tight throat. "It's me." He saw so much in her eyes; a depth of emotion, from regret, to uncertainty, to sad joy at his visit.

He was certain then. He knew, he was convinced, that he wanted to keep her, that he wanted her to stay with him. He didn't know if he could succeed, but he was certain he had to try, even if nothing came of it. He had discovered a small greatness within himself, and he had to try.

Adopting Emilly proved to be a relatively simple and quick process. The most difficult conversation was with child psychologist Barbara Peritus, who had justified doubts about whether a man who had suffered such a blow from life—the loss of his entire family—was capable of raising a little girl who required special care and appropriate attention. Fortunately, she was a very competent person, guided not only by scientific formulas but by understanding. Moreover, as Henry noted, she had a wonderful gift for finding positive qualities in people, hidden goodness, and even a very shy desire to do the best she could.

"You should be a priest," he told her as he left, when it was clear that the positive decision regarding Emily's adoption was merely a formality. His eyes welled with tears, not of pain, but of happiness. He felt a pressure in his chest, a heaviness that nevertheless brought him joy. A pearly tear rolled down his rough cheek and, after a brief hesitation, fell to his chin.

"That's what convinces me I made the right choice." "She said quietly, a smile on her lips and joy in her gentle gaze.

The Spretors' restaurant chain was on the verge of bankruptcy. While they were alive, they had fought for their business and somehow managed to survive. However, when news of their unfortunate accident reached their creditors, they pounced like hyenas on carrion, tearing everything apart. Nothing remained.

They were together. The house brightened, as if it had its own separate soul, and he was truly delighted by the arrival of this little creature, illuminating his inner self with her presence.

It was early morning, and Henry, as usual, sat at his desk with a window overlooking the ocean. Sudden inspiration struck, he picked up a blank sheet of paper and held it close. He hadn't written in three years, not a line, not a single word that reflected his thoughts or feelings. He picked up the pen and, for a split second, paused on the pristine whiteness of the innocent page. He touched the nib and wrote in an even, calm hand:

Greatness and smallness at the same time are present in the essence of our soul.

Still tarnished by deeds whose value has crumbled over time.

Our faith, our thoughts, so close to us and so important,

exist in our lives, sometimes silently or boldly

. Who we were, who we are, and who we will one day become?

One day we will all know this, in our greatness.

Like Job, let us persevere in our faith, tirelessly and without complaint.

When, like Icarus, we strike the reality of our faith.

I know today, in our greatness, created from the momentum of life.

That though it is small, yet with its smallness it is power.

Henry put down his pen. A delicate breeze swept through the slightly open window, swirled, stirring the restlessly drawn curtain, and ran across the thin pages of the open Bible. They rustled softly, as if to hold back their unexpected guest. The pages, with a whisper of change, turned gently. Frrrrrr............. Henry looked at the open book and his gaze rested on one of the many lines of biblical verses:

"I know that you can do all things; whatever you set your mind to, you can do. He who obscures his purpose without understanding..." - [Bible, Book of Job 42:2–3]

Fate circled again with Destiny, smiling at time, which flowed at its own steady pace, containing within itself the greatness and smallness of every particle of the human soul. Two fragments, two sad souls, stood on the edge of a cliff, gazing at the sun rising toward a new day. Emily timidly took Henry's hand, still gazing at the golden circle slowly moving upward from the horizon.